


Second Sight

by FiveTail



Category: Original Work, Traversion
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 20:27:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6822817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiveTail/pseuds/FiveTail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young man caught her eye. He was a boy of Asian descent, not much older than she, standing in the middle of the aisle. It wasn’t the strange black button-up uniform he wore that caught her attention, nor was it that he refused to take a seat. No, it was definitely the giant trident strapped to his back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There were two things keeping Charlotte company in her bedroom tonight: the steady amber glow of the streetlamp outside her window, and the small, eyeless monstrosity perched atop her chest.

Insomnia was a known acquaintance, but the beast was new.

A pair of horns crowned its head, hooking forward into points parallel to its jawline. The edges of its mouth didn’t fit together when closed: parts of its skin stuck out in uneven, jagged lines, a malformed venus flytrap where the lower half of its face should have been. Two large bones, curved like bat wings without membrane, protruded from its back and propped the creature up, allowing its otherwise quadrupedal form to curl up and dangle in mid-air.

The creature’s angled stilts jabbed sharply into each side of her chest, just beneath her ribcage.

Charlotte couldn’t breathe.

For something the size of a housecat, it felt more like an anvil pinning her to the mattress.

She was completely paralyzed. Her mouth would not open. Her voice would not come. Her eyes darted about the room, looking to send signals of panic to anyone, to anything around her, but she was alone in catatonic stupor, engaged in a one-way staring contest with a demon.

The beast kept as still as she.

Soon enough, her heartbeat softened from its heavy pounding to a metronomic rhythm. She couldn’t tell how long she lied there, or how long her skin prickled with anxiety, but eventually, the steady amber glow outside her window gave way to the break of dawn.

The creature vanished, and Charlotte woke up screaming five minutes before her alarm sounded.

Her hands immediately flew over her mouth, too late to muffle the sound. Sweat had plastered her hair to the back of her neck, her forehead, and the sides of her face. Her staggered inhales wracked her trembling frame and chilled her to the core.

A vigorous knocking rapped at her door. She jumped.

“Charlie?” a deep voice called. The knocks came again. “ _Was ist los_?”

“Nothing, I--I’m fine,” she stammered. “I’m alright. Sorry.”

“May I come in?”

“Yeah.”

Her door creaked open, the black-and-white aerial print of Boston making way for a tall man sporting chaotic bedhead. He entered her bedroom, a hand buried in the pocket of the plush blue-striped housecoat she’d bought him for Father’s Day last year.

Charlotte’s father was a weathered man, possessing a strong face, disheveled white hair, and a salt-and-pepper beard. He looked like he could have been a philosopher, if he were born in some ancient time, the ones they carved from marble and studied for generations. Instead, he taught mathematics at a high school. Charlotte never understood how someone could enjoy making a living off of explaining things to people, but teaching seemed to suit her father just fine.

The end of Charlotte’s mattress sank as her father sat on it.

“Sleep paralysis?” he asked quietly.

She nodded. “Think so.”

“You haven’t had those since you were a child.”

“Yeah.” She suddenly looked worried. “I’m sorry--I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

He shook his head. “I was speaking to your _Tante_ Sofie. She’s sent another package and would like us to call her when it arrives.”

“Okay.”

Charlotte’s father took notice of how her hands were still shaking.

“Your mind goes to dark places when you’re stressed.” He tucked a bit of her messy brown hair behind her ear. “Deep breaths, Charlie. It wasn’t real.”

“I know.” She took a breath, as instructed. “I’m okay.”

“Should I get started on breakfast?”

Charlotte’s phone alarm started playing the X-Files theme song.

“…yes, please.”

*

Groggy and half-asleep, Charlotte made her way to the bathroom at the end of the hall, hardwood floors creaking in all the familiar places. She flicked on the light, wincing at its brightness.

The state of her hair this morning caused her to do a double-take in the mirror.

Wavy, chocolate-brown locks stuck up in places she was sure defied gravity. Mere hairbands crafted from the hands of men were not strong enough to contain such poof.

“Impressive,” she whispered to no one in particular.

Her colour may have come from her mother, but the genetic bedhead was her father’s.

Charlotte splashed water on her face, washing away the sweat from her cheeks and the dried spit from the corners of her mouth. The sink ran as she looked herself over. She wore the t-shirt her father bought her at Disneyworld, a garment that doubled as a dress by the way it came midway past her thighs. It had always been massive on her--partly because it was much too big when she first got it, but mostly because she hadn’t grown much since she was fifteen.

(In neither bust size, nor any other manner.)

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

Charlotte turned off the sink before drying her face. She began the process of running a comb through her hair.

She learned at a young age that sleep paralysis was a limbo between waking and sleeping. Speech and movement were impossible while you were caught in it, and nightmarish hallucinations came with the territory. Reminding yourself of the boundaries of reality was important. Nothing could hurt you, no matter how real it felt.

She pulled her unruly hair into a loose bun in a poor attempt to tame it. It kind of worked.

‘ _It wasn’t real._ ’

Before leaving the bathroom, she took another look in the mirror.

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

She raised her shirt-dress.

On either side of her chest, just below her ribcage, were two small bruises.

*

 **cinnadicks [5:24 am]** : morning sunshine did you have a good night  
**CWSpencer [6:27 am]** : Not really.  
**CWSpencer [6:27 am]** : I think I hurt myself in my sleep.  
**cinnadicks [6:28 am]** : thats shitty hurt yourself how?  
**CWSpencer [6:28 am]** : Idk I woke up with a couple of weird bruises on my chest?  
**cinnadicks [6:28 am]** : i think those are called nipples.  
**CWSpencer [6:28 am]** : Lol.

The smell of bacon and eggs filled the apartment kitchen. Charlotte’s father worked away at the stove while Charlotte leaned over by the blender, her signature strawberry-banana smoothie whirring away on the countertop.

Her father wasn’t always home early enough to have dinner because he normally tutored after school, so he made sure they had breakfast together every morning, even if they only had time for cereal and toast. This morning felt different, though: peculiar and numb.

Charlotte’s father glanced to see her glued to her phone.

“Is that Trevon?” he asked over the sound of eggs sizzling in the pan.

“Yeah.”

“Say hello to him for me.”

 **CWSpencer [6:32 am]** : My dad says hi.  
**cinnadicks [6:33 am]** : oh shit silver fox noticed me i can die happy now  
**CWSpencer [6:33 am]** : Ewwww.  
**cinnadicks [6:33 am]** : dont hate  
**cinnadicks [6:34 am]** : seriously tho are you feeling alright  
**cinnadicks [6:34 am]** : about today i mean

While her father dished food onto their plates, Charlotte poured smoothie into their glasses and placed a bendy straw in each one.

 **CWSpencer [6:37 am]** : I think so?  
**CWSpencer [6:37 am]** : I mean I haven’t thought about it much.  
**cinnadicks [6:38 am]** : well you know where to find me  
**cinnadicks [6:38 am]** : i gotta draw pictures of buildings all day now so ttyl  
**cinnadicks [6:38 am]** : i have classes until one your time but im free to call or whatever after  
**CWSpencer [6:38 am]** : Thanks. I’ll let you know.  
**CWSpencer [6:39 am]** : Good luck with buildings and junk.  
**cinnadicks [6:39 am]** : good luck with family and junk

Charlotte sat across from her father in front of a colourful dish of eggs scrambled with chopped tomatoes, green onions, and cheddar cheese. A plate of bacon on top of a few folded sheets of paper towel served as their centerpiece.

“Thanks for breakfast,” she smiled.

“Thank you for drinks,” he replied. He took a short pause before speaking again. “Charlotte, there’s something I’ve wanted to talk to you about. It’s about your grandmother.”

“ _Oma_? What about her?”

“She says she doesn’t want to be in her house right now. She would like to stay with us for a while.”

“Yeah, of course,” she said without hesitation. She took another bite of eggs. “Anything for _Oma_.”

“Alright.”

His smile was solemn, but she couldn’t figure out why.

“…hey, papa?”

“Yes?”

“Are you feeling alright? About today?”

Charlotte’s father lowered his glass. He picked up his napkin and wiped smoothie from his beard.

“I’m more frightened of the speaking part than I am over anything else,” he chuckled. “Does that make me a bad person?”

They laughed together.

“It’s a good speech, papa.”

“I hope so.”

*

Charlotte didn’t expect the weather to be as nice as it was during the funeral.

She figured it was an unwritten rule of life for the sun not to shine as brightly when so many mourning people were gathered in one place. Sad weather came in all shapes and temperatures, she learned, as the congregation was blessed with nary a cloud in the sky.

The atmosphere was no better inside the church. The air was thick and sweltering with the pressure of a hundred people, the heat magnified by all-black attire. The priest spoke kind, poetic words, but all Charlotte could think about was how itchy her stockings were. Charlotte felt like she should have been more bothered about today. She then proceeded to feel guilty for not feeling as bothered as she should have been.

A few rows down from her sat her grandmother. A small crowd of relatives surrounded the elderly widow, comforting her in her grief. Her grandmother was her father’s mother, the kind of tiny old lady who would make small-talk with baristas at coffee shops, and would knock her kids in the back of their heads no matter how old they were. The wearied lines of her face had multiplied since Charlotte saw her last--she looked like she had aged a decade in the span of two weeks.

Later on in the service, Charlotte’s father raised himself to the podium.

There was familiarity in the way he carried himself: the grip with which he held onto the sides of the lectern and the confidence with which he raised his head to speak. Charlotte figured that as a teacher, her father was used to public speaking—but it wasn’t the public speaking that made him nervous.

He was taking longer than he should have to begin his speech.

Charlotte straightened up in the pews. She caught his eye and motioned deep breaths—once, twice.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and started speaking in German.

Charlotte was never formally taught her family’s language. She couldn’t speak it very well, but she understood the healthy majority of what her father was saying. He spoke of childhood memories, of the good his father did in the world, of how he aspired to be half the man his father was. There was power in his words, even though she missed a few. There was conviction in his voice, even though it was breaking.

Charlotte didn’t realize she was crying until about halfway through his speech.

Her father finished, then resumed the eulogy in English.

Charlotte looked around herself at the faces of the congregation, at the number of lives her grandfather had touched while he was still alive. There were family members in attendance, but also colleagues from his University, families of his friends, scores of people she’d never seen before.

She wondered briefly how many people would show up to her funeral if she died.

A young man caught her eye.

He was a boy of Asian descent, not much older than she, standing in the middle of the aisle. It wasn’t the strange black button-up uniform he wore that caught her attention, nor was it that he refused to take a seat.

No, it was definitely the giant trident strapped to his back.


	2. Chapter 2

Tall windows allowed sunlight to pour into the church’s social hall, illuminating the memorial reception and making light dance under the modest chandeliers. The hall felt grand, but neutral and repurposed, dressed up and down daily for a variety of events.

The polished hardwood floors made the migrating crowd’s dress shoes _click, click, click_. There was no burial service. There was nothing to bury.

A long dinner table stretched out by the far wall, carrying large trays of elegantly stacked food. Pitchers of ice water and fruit punch separated the four major food groups—fresh fruits, folded meats, finger sandwiches, and cheese.

Charlotte kept to a corner of the buffet. Her height allowed her to take partial cover behind a large bouquet of white flowers at the far end of the table. She absently put caprese skewers on her plate while peeking out at the unusual boy across the room.

He’d been in the background throughout the day’s service. He surveyed his environment and kept his walk slow, stopping only to listen in on people’s conversations. What bothered Charlotte, though, was that no one seemed to care. No one paid any mind to the weirdly-dressed kid with the giant weapon strapped to his back, travelling through the crowd with the sharp edges of his trident hovering dangerously close to several peoples’ faces as he eavesdropped. Was everyone else in on something she wasn’t? Who did he think he was, King of the Seven Seas?

“Charlie,” called her father.

“Ah—yes?” she responded, turning her head while keeping her eyes locked on the young man.

“Save some for the rest of us, yes?”

Charlotte looked down to see a good twenty skewers piled high on her plate.

“Ah! Right…um.” She dumped most of them back into the tray. “My bad.”

An unfamiliar, deeper voice chuckled. “No need to stock up. I can give you a recipe for them, if you’d like.”

Turning, Charlotte saw another man standing next to her father. The stranger was taller, dressed in a handsome suit and tie. He was balding with a bit of a belly, and a well-trimmed moustache above his lip. The dark skin of his face told tales of a life happy-lived; wrinkles were etched permanently in the places that he smiled.

“Charlotte, this is Dr. Reynolds,” her father introduced. “He’s flown in from across the country to attend your grandfather’s service.”

Charlotte juggled her plate before settling on a hand to shake with. “Nice to meet you, Doctor. I’m glad you could make it.”

“Elijah’s just fine,” Reynolds smiled, taking her hand into his own. He had a doctor’s handshake. “I’m sorry for your loss. I wish we could’ve met under better circumstances.”

“At least we’re meeting,” Charlotte replied. She let herself feel a little proud for finally figuring out how to respond to that comment; it seemed like everyone new she’d met since her grandfather passed away wished they could’ve met her before he died. “How did you know my grandfather?”

“Mikkel and I met in University. Worked together on several projects. Brilliant man, he was. Our little corner of the engineering world misses him already.”

“That’s kind of you to say,” she said. Wait, _was_ it kind? The conversation didn’t get this far in her head.

(The glint of a trident caught her eye. Asian Aquaman weaved his way through people like he did it for a living. Where was he _going_?)

“I hear you’re taking a break before heading to college.”

“Uh-huh,” she mumbled. (The boy reached the opposite end of buffet table and started looking around, again. Was he going to stab the hor d’oeuvres?)

“Sounds relaxing. What are you doing with all your free time?”

“Working, mostly. Just trying to figure out what I want to do for school.”

“Well, if I’ve got my history right, your great-grandfather attended Brooke. So did Mikkel. So did Lukas, here.” He chortled as he nudged her father. “Seems like there’s a trend.”

“Right,” she said, still watching the boy.

Charlotte’s father cleared his throat, effectively breaking her out of her reverie.

“I—I mean, it’s still early,” she elaborated, making eye contact with Reynolds. “I still have a chance to decide whether or not I want to break the Brooke family combo.”

“You do,” Reynolds laughed. “But if you need a letter of recommendation for the family alma mater, give me a call.” He handed her his business card. “In the unlikely case that name-dropping your grandfather isn’t enough, of course.”

She took the card in her free hand, still balancing her skewer plate in the other. “Thank you, sir.”

“My pleasure, Charlotte. I’m glad we had a chance to meet.”

Reynolds addressed Charlotte’s father and gave a quick bow of his head before leaving. “Lukas.”

Charlotte’s father took a skewer and munched on it. “You seem distracted, Charlie.”

Reengaging in stakeout mode, Charlotte also picked up a skewer from her plate. “What makes you say that?”

“You hate cilantro.”

The comment came too late--Charlotte rolled her tongue out of her mouth, gagging.

“Why would you do that to perfectly good _cheese_ ‽ ” she cried. “Why would you ruin it with _gross soapy leaves_ ‽”

“They are normally made with basil instead of cilantro, I think. I am not sure what they were trying to do here.”

Charlotte made a show of cleaning her tongue off with a napkin.

“So.” Her father looked in the direction she was staring. “What am I looking at, Charlie?”

“The boy with the trident,” she said, picking thin bits of paper from her mouth. “Do you know him?”

“Tri...dent? Like, er. Like a mean person?”

“A mean person?”

“An evil ruler.”

“An evil ru—oh, oh no, that’s a _tyrant_. A trident is like. It’s like a giant fork.”

“You are staring at this boy because he has a giant fork…?”

“Yes! I mean—no. I mean…I guess?”

“...is this a euphemism?”

“Wh—what? No!”

“Papa does not need to know that you prefer boys with large forks.”

“ _Papa_!” she laughed.

“Ah, a smile. That’s good.” He leaned over and grabbed a few more caprese skewers from the tray on the buffet table. “I’m going to see your _Oma_ , now. You might want to discard your plate before speaking to the boy with the large fork.”

She tried to supress the smile on her face. “Sure thing.”

Giving her a pat on the shoulder, her father moved back into the crowd.

Charlotte set her plate aside, and took a deep breath.

*

The young man stood at the other end of the buffet table, neighbored by stacks of napkins, plates, and cutlery.

Charlotte approached with caution.

As she got closer, she noticed he was around the same height she was. His choppy, jet black hair was an organized chaos. It was deliberate and messy in the way only those in an intimate relationship with hair gel could manage every morning. The black uniform he wore reminded her of an Admiral’s coat: high-collared and straight-shouldered with a row of dark gold buttons down the front.

His dark, shallow-set eyes scanned a tower of cucumber sandwiches like they contained raw bees.

Large, sleek, and silver, the trident he carried looked even more authentic up close, but Charlotte refused to believe he would’ve have been allowed inside a church. It was probably a really elaborate prop.

“Not sure if everyone is just too polite to say anything, but I don’t think weapons are allowed in here,” she offered with a short laugh.

He ignored her completely, half-shrugging to adjust the strap of his black leather shoulder bag.

Charlotte’s confidence dropped as her half-joke fell fully flat.

She cleared her throat and raised a hand. “I’m Charlotte. Nice to meet you.”

Spinning to face her, he first noticed she was looking directly at him, then he noticed her outstretched hand.

His eyebrows pulled together in bewilderment.

Charlotte shrank. Now he was looking at _her_ like  _she_ contained raw bees.

“Not a big fan of introductions, I guess. That’s cool.” She put her hand away. It wasn’t cool at all. “So, er. How did you know my grandfather?”

He continued staring at her.

(Her established script was failing her. This was bad.)

“Did _he_ put you up to the whole _trident_ thing?” she asked cheekily. Her palms were getting sweaty; she put them on her hips to disguise wiping them. “Seems like something he’d do. Always such a prankster, that guy.”

The young man glanced around uncomfortably.

“Yeeeeah, my _Opa_ was really cool. He ate right, ran a mile every morning, never smoke or drank. I can’t believe it was a boating accident that got him in the end. He was such a pro when it came to nautical stuff! He always wanted to take me out to sea, but it never happened.” Her laugh was forced. “Who’s gonna teach me how to sail, now?”

His expression softened to something more troubled.

Charlotte raised her hands in reproach. She didn’t mean that to sound as sad as it came out. “But hey, he died doing what he loved, at least! And it was something _cool_ , you know? If I died doing what I loved, they’d have to scrape my ice cream-stuffed corpse from a Pokémon game.”

He chuckled.

She straightened up a little and grinned with him. It was contagious.

“Ah, I made you smile! I feel like I should get a prize or something.”

(Wait—why was she trying to cheer _him_ up? This was _her_ grandfather’s funeral.)

Reaching into his bag, he pulled out a pen and bent down to write directly on the tablecloth. He motioned to the scribble.

Charlotte approached and looked down.

**tadashi**

“Tadashi...” she repeated out loud. She squinted at a small illustration below his message. “Wait—is this a doodle of you holding a fork?”

She straightened up and turned to face him. He was already gone.

When she looked back at the tablecloth, his marks had also disappeared.


End file.
